Against her will, for them

 

Do this.

Do that.

Be this.

This the way she lived her entire life. Always their decisions, their rules, their expectations. She yearned for something for herself for once. Something all hers. Something worth shouting to the world with a bursting scream ripping from her lungs, blaring out of her chest, a trumpeting golden horn playing to the tune of a marching band. In great expression, she would shout that what she has created, she has made good.

And that Something would be something they couldn’t take from her.

But no matter what she tried,

She was always squashed by their big fat thumbs, molded into a flat circle pancake rather than the work of beautiful and unique art she was creating to make of herself.

I have my values. I have my God.

Just because I sinned and sin daily does not mean I do not love Him.

Your imperfect ideology of theology theos theo—it all means nothing if you don’t know the true meaning of love.

And I love what’s growing inside of me.

I love it because I know that it is something that neither of you can squash and form into your own typical flat pancake of what you portray a sweet, innocent teenage girl should be.

No, she is a work of art. My art.

He is being crafted perfectly inside my womb.

I love that he is mine.

I love that she is a gift from God himself.

Throw it away.

Get rid of it, this evidence that you have sinned. Be pure. Be pretty. Be perfect.

Let me have her, let me have him she screamed over and over, but her voice was lost in the swirling, savage sea of hypocrisy.

Hypocrisy because their very request went against their precious theology, their great love of religion, their sanctimonious devotion.

He’s not yours! I want it Momma, I need it Daddy you can’t have him—no she’s mine stop hurting me! I’m in love with her, I don’t want to hurt him Daddy stop hurting her stop stop.

You ignore me just like you ignore every attempt I ever make to be more than your puppet, entangled in a web of strings,

The thin fishing line wire that holds up my limbs and tells them when to move and when to stay still, that line that is controlled by you, it’s cutting into my throat.

It’s wrapping around my thin, tender neck—an anaconda tightening its deathly grip and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

I can feel the ligaments in my throat shifting, as the grip gets tighter.

I feel my tongue pressed to all the sides of my esophagus at once and feel the warm spittle shooting to the back of my throat.

Tighter yet.

I can’t breathe. I can’t gasp. I can’t fight back because my arms and legs aren’t controlled by me—they’re controlled by you.

I can’t do anything but feel as my white skin turns purple and blue under your grasp until finally,

I hear the base of my skull pop from the place where my spine holds it in place. Vertebrae crackle as my loose head starts to lull from its upright position,

Twisting at a grotesque and unnatural position,

Further more proving that I’m only your puppet.

My head dangles there,

My dead, black eyes looking back at you, begging God to sever the ties that entangle around my throat, the ties that tie me to your chocking grasp.

They struggled with her she struggled with them their lives were struggles against each other,

In morals, in values, in being, in life, in love for each other, in religion.

Shit, I have more religion than either of you do.

Theos help me now

But theology couldn’t help her then.

Oh god oh god oh god what should I do.

She wanted so desperately to have something of her own!

Yet she loved them so much despite the pain they caused her and cause her daily.

How could she then betray them and keep that which she was creating when they were demanding that she throw it out?

Sacrifice this beautiful creation of mine, of yours, of the heavens?

For them? For family. For the sake of being together? For the sake of peace?

What peace would I have if I destroyed what is mine, my precious baby?

She got up from the cold, moist ground, wet from the tears that had been streaked across her face.

She left the little pool of sorrow and turmoil behind and took a step.

Then two. Then three.

The frail fingers of her left hand touched the railing mounted on the wall gently, steadying herself.

The delicate fingertips of her right hand rested softly just below her bellybutton.

Peering down at the cascade of steps beneath her toes and eyeing the sharp edges of each. And every. Little. Step.

The smooth wooden floors shined in the dull-yellowed light shining in from her open bedroom door.

She clenched her eyes tightly.

She threw herself down the stairs.

She threw her creation on the altar vehemently, the sacrifice to save her family, the sacrifice she had to make to make the peace that made her family a family.

She did it.

For them. For family. For the sake of being together. For their sake.

And I felt him slip from me.

His tiny fingers that could have wrapped around my forefinger, those beautiful, bright blue eyes of a precious baby girl that could have stared up at me, that child’s laughter that holds nothing back that would have chimed in my ears. My child’s laughter.

I felt it slip from me.

That life that was growing inside of me that I am in love with that is mine that I created that God gave me that moved inside me that held the flame to ignite the light in my eyes that’s gone. He’s gone. She’s gone.

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